


An Unexpected Admirer

by lanyon



Category: Lord John Grey - Gabaldon
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lord John Grey attends a Yuletide celebration and has a rather pleasant encounter with an almost-complete stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Admirer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kenaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenaz/gifts).



_LONDON  
December, 1757._

It was with an unreasonably, unseasonably heavy heart that Grey presented himself at the Countess Bandon's residence on Eccleston Mews. Snow had begun to fall lightly, which meant that Tom was at his elbow, clucking like a nursemaid, although Grey knew that his valet was more than happy to see him socialising after a particularly grueling campaign in Prussia. In truth, Grey found this afternoon's campaign on the boutiques of Bond Street, with his half-brother's wife and daughters, to have been considerably more exhausting.

Tom, ever attentive, ensured that Grey's mask was on straight and he removed Grey's cloak with great panache before scurrying off to the kitchens where, no doubt, the servants would be having their own Yuletide celebration.

Grey tugged at the edge of his mask, which covered his eyes and nose and was the same deep green as his velvet doublet. He felt like a Christmas goose, laden down with trimmings. He supposed that even in this costume, he was less ostentatious than Stephan von Namtzen in his regular battle dress. His heart twisted uncomfortably at the thought of the German soldier. He almost raised his hand to his chest, unused to such contortions of the heart in matters unrelated to Jamie Fraser. Von Namtzen must be married by now, of course; it was his intention when last they spoke and even though their correspondence had not been frequent in the intervening weeks, Grey had no reason to suppose that Stephan had changed his mind.

"Lord John!" shrieked a particularly high-pitched voice before he found his wrist caught in a pincer-grip of an otherwise delicate hand. "We were worried that you had quite forgotten us!"

"Countess," said Grey, with a short bow. "Or are we not to speak of our true identities?"

"I am the hostess," said the Countess with great glee. "It is my business to know all of my guests."

"I have no doubt that this evening's party is already quite the success," said Grey, agreeably, as he surveyed the room. It was full of light and laughter and some of the more extravagant head-dresses seen outside the darkest realms of deepest Africa.

"Yes, my house is rather transformed, isn't it?" The Countess beamed from behind her most lavish mask, which was laden down with peacock feathers. "Masquerade balls are all the rage on the continent, you know."

Grey did not like to inform his hostess that masquerade balls rarely featured in dispatches from the continent, given that most were more concerned with attempting to quell French hostilities. Fortunately, he was rescued by Harry Quarry, who looked most ridiculous in his mask and made no attempt to conceal his amusement at Grey's attire.

"Good God, man, you look positively French in that get-up!"

With a wry inclination of his head, Grey could only smile and his general air of melancholy began to lift. He had no reason to be unhappy; he was to spend the evening in the company of congenial acquaintances, with a log fire blazing and attentive servants who seemed intent on ensuring that every glass of punch remained half-full.

"I recognise most of these people, which seems rather to undermine the whole point of this lark," continued Quarry. "See, there's Banbury in that ridiculous yellow monstrosity and the Ladies Dunn are all a-flutter with young Miss Thompson in that corner." He jostled Grey's elbow. "Have a care, Grey. As soon as they realise you are here, you may well become the target of their attentions."

Grey was not oblivious to his own qualities, although they tended to perplex him. He knew that he was an attractive prospect to the young single women of London, being titled and rich, and he was quite grateful that there were some rumours that he was married to his career.

Sipping his punch, Grey looked across the room at the group of young women and saw that their attention was quite diverted. "And who are they talking to? I don't think I recognise him."

"I have no idea," said Quarry, looking rather aggrieved by his own admission. He turned back to Grey. "In any case, John, there are more interesting things of which to talk. You will not be long in London?"

"No, I'm to rejoin the campaigns in January. Prussia again, no doubt."

"And have you heard of young James Wolfe?" Another person joined in their conversation and it took Grey a moment to recognise him.

"Ah, Selby, yes. How are you, old chap? Ridiculous assembly this, isn't it?" Quarry seized Lord Selby's hand and shook heartily. "But Wolfe, indeed! Only three years your senior, Grey, and he's not escaped Pitt's notice."

"The word is that he is to be shipped to Quebec to face the French there," said Selby.

"In that case," said Grey dryly, "I am quite happy to continue to escape Pitt's notice."

"You shall not escape my notice, Major Grey."

Grey turned to face his accuser, figuratively girding his loins. "Lady Hester," he said and there followed a brief, but necessary exchange on how wonderful everyone looked and how dazzling the hostess and how tasteful the decoration and before Grey knew it, he was escorting the young heiress to the supper table.

The conversation over supper was engaging, at least, and Grey sat at the same table as the stranger who remained unidentified, much to Quarry's chagrin. Some of the young women at the table begged Grey to tell them about the war on the continent and Grey obliged. Perhaps his tongue was loosened by the free-flowing punch, but he was also aware of the stranger's eyes on him, as he gave a sanitised account of his time in Gundwitz.

"I cannot imagine that it was the King's intention that one of his soldiers be mounted on a white stallion in a cemetery in the dead of night but there I was," he said, amidst laughter. "Karolus is a fine horse and a smart one, too. Had I my wits about me, I would have urged him to run the sooner!"

"And the succubus?" asked one of his wide-eyed listeners, who was gripping her neighbour's sleeve for comfort.

Grey smiled. "Apprehended," he simply said. "Though perhaps that story is more suited to All Hallow's Eve than a yuletide celebration."

As soon as it was polite to do so, Grey excused himself from the table and made his way outside for a breath of air. The snow was falling faster now and it was perhaps too cold to venture outside without a cloak but Tom Byrd was not there to fuss over him and the veranda was gloriously empty.

"You tell a good story."

Grey spun around to find himself face to face with the stranger. He bowed his head. "Sir, you are very kind to say so."

The stranger laughed, sounding impossibly young. Standing here, just outside the arc of light from the house, Grey felt at liberty to examine him more closely. He was a tall man, perhaps even taller than … No, he must stop himself there. It would not do to think always of Jamie Fraser (or even Stephan von Namtzen) when faced with an attractive prospect. (Gods, he must be drunk.) The stranger was tall, however, and his hair was a little longer than was the fashion, long enough for black curls to fall around his ears and brush the nape of his neck. To judge from his accent, the stranger hailed from the north of England.

"My name is Grey," he said abruptly, reaching out his hand. "Lord John Grey."

The stranger shook his hand. "I had gathered as much. Eliza and Cecily Dunn were most excited by your entrance." He smiled, his cheeks curving beneath his black mask. "I am Fabian Chevalier-Bailey."

Grey started because, for an instant, the stranger sounded entirely French. A little shakily, he recovered himself. "It seems an unlikely name for an Englishman."

"Ah, but I am not entirely English." Fabian laughed. "Oh, do not be embarrassed. I am used to causing consternation wherever I go. I would be the most marvelous spy, you know, except that everyone already supposes me to be one."

"And are you?" Grey could not resist asking.

Fabian laughed again. "My mother was a Frenchwoman. The circumstances of my birth are less than favourable. My father is a landowner in Yorkshire. I was too busy learning to defend myself to find the time to become a spy."

Grey smiled, though he noted that the man did not answer the question. "What brings you to London?" he asked, eager to keep talking to Fabian, although he was starting to feel the cold.

"It is warmer here than in Yorkshire," Fabian said. "Though you are shaking! We should go back inside."

"No!" began Grey. Instantly, he realised how foolhardy such a refusal was. "Yes, you are probably right," he said, sounding as rueful as he felt, although the punch had sufficiently relaxed him that he did not feel too embarrassed.

"Come, I shall find us somewhere private to talk," said Fabian, his amusement only too evident to Grey, even on an acquaintance of half an evening. Grey followed Fabian back into the house and down some corridor or other to what turned out to be the Count's library.

"Should I be suspicious that you know your way around this house so well?" asked Grey.

"I am a French spy, remember? And if I know you Englishmen at all, I know that we will find at least a passable bottle of brandy in here."

Grey gravitated towards the fireplace, which, rather extravagantly, was burning merrily, while Fabian disappeared behind some shelves. He re-emerged scant moments later, carrying two glasses and a bottle.

"Perhaps not that passable, after all," he said disdainfully, having smelt the bottle's contents. "It should keep us from perishing in this cold."

Grey sat down in an armchair next to the fire, feeling self-conscious in his costume. "It is nice to find a little peace and quiet."

"Yes, it must be a novelty for a soldier," said Fabian, handing Grey a generous glass of brandy. He was right; it was not passable but it burned Grey's throat and jolted him enough to remind him to be sensible. In all this loneliness, he must remain on his guard.

"What do you do?" he asked.

Fabian shrugged and he looked impossibly Gallic. He leaned against the mantelpiece, one elbow resting there as he sipped his brandy. "I do not know. I was educated in Harrow and that was a fright. I'm due to return to Oxford for Hilary term but I do have the faintest hankering to be a soldier. Do you think they would have me?"

Grey almost laughed. "I am sure they would, French or no." He pauses before asking his next question. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen," said Fabian, with all the pride of a teenager.

"So young," said Grey, shaking his head and telling himself that he was amused; all this time and these first flickerings of desire were for a boy who had seen nothing of the world (though perhaps that was the basis of his appeal). He knew, of course, that any flirtation could not proceed any further and he rose to his feet.

"We should probably return to the party," he said, successfully disguising his regret.

"Really?" Fabian swallowed down his brandy and swayed slightly on his feet. Tall as he was, broad as he was, he was not immune to the effects of alcohol. "But I like talking to you. Won't you tell me about the succubus?"

Grey set his glass on the mantelpiece and raised his chin, though the top of his head barely came up to Fabian's nose. "I think maybe you are a little young."

"Men younger than me have fought in wars," said Fabian, a little arrogantly.

"I know," said Grey shortly. "I fought at Culloden. I was sixteen when I joined the army."

"Then I am not too young," said Fabian.

Grey had no wish to try to untangle the young man's logic, though his own rational mind briefly floundered as Fabian bowed his head and pressed his lips to Grey's. "I am not too young," repeated Fabian.

Grey's stomach lurched as he realised the young man knew precisely what he was doing. Grey's hand crept up to rub and knead at Fabian's shoulder, intending, perhaps, to push him away. He pulled back, prepared to admonish Fabian though it was hard to voice a firm objection while Fabian was looking at him so intently, brown eyes fathoms-deep behind that mask. Grey held his breath. This man was big. He was muscular (Grey had felt that in the brief seconds during which his hand had lain on his shoulder). He was old enough to know his own desire and young enough to think nothing of seizing it with both hands (hands that were, even now, creeping around Grey's waist).

"I do hope that you're not a French spy," murmured Grey. "It really would be too much."

Fabian chuckled and he began to unbutton Grey's tunic, his fingers remarkably deft for such a large man.

"Are you sure … that this is quite wise?"

"We will not be disturbed here. To judge from the dust, the Count has not ventured into this room for years."

"Very perceptive of you, oh," Grey turned slightly, reaching for his glass of brandy and he drank it back in one-two long swallows. The boy, with his liquid brown eyes and Fraser shape, watched him closely and Grey was struck by how old he seemed or, at least, how sure of himself.

"I am not a French spy," said Fabian and he ducked his head for another firm kiss. "I am not too young." And another kiss. "I know what I am doing." Another kiss, on the side of Grey's neck. "And I have admired you for a very long time, Lord John."

Grey's thoughts became increasingly muddled by the firelight and the brandy and Fabian's proximity and Fabian's hands and he did not stop to wonder at how this man-child could have admired him when they had never met before this night. It was all he can do to revel in the unexpected softness of the hearth rug beneath his bare back and Fabian's weight crushing him into some sort of oblivion.

The sound of the party occasionally filtered down the long corridor, just about audible over Fabian's hoarse whispers and Grey's own breathy moans. Fabian was an ardent lover, enthusiastic and fascinated by Grey. He laughed, almost to Grey's surprise, and his long fingers swept over Grey's body, firm and fervent in their exploration.

When their combined tremors subsided, Grey dragged his lips over Fabian's smooth cheek and kissed him softly, gratified by a purr of pleasure and Fabian's fingers tightening on his hip.

Reluctantly, Grey broke their comfortable silence. "As much as I would be happy to remain here," he said softly. "I think if we delay much longer, we might be missed."

Fabian groaned, stretching beneath him. "Must we? Yes, I suppose we must."

Quickly, and with no sense of shame, both men got dressed and attended their masks which were askew but still largely in place, despite their amourous exertions.

"Wait here for a few minutes," said Grey, relieved to here that his voice was steady, commanding as it should be. On a whim, he reached up, cupping Fabian's chin and guiding him down for a final kiss.

Grey made his way back to the party where, it seemed, he hadn't been missed. He joined a conversation with Harry Quarry and a number of officers. It seemed that a small contingent had decided to remove their masks and Grey had no compunction in removing his own, although it is with some regret.

"You've been heavy on the punch, old boy!" cried Quarry jovially, slapping Grey on the back with enough force to send him forward a step or two. "That or you've been hogging the fire. Your face is as red as my Aunt Gertrude's when she's had a sherry before lunch!"

Grey laughed. "Perhaps I have over-indulged," he admitted. "In fact, I think I might make my apologies, gentlemen?"

Exchanging bows and handshakes and promises to meet at the Beefsteak later in the week, Grey extricated himself from the boisterous gathering. His single desire was to make his way home, to linger over the evening in the privacy of his own apartment.

"Lord John, you're leaving?"

Grey bowed his head. "I am, Countess. Thank you for a very enjoyable evening."

"You are more than welcome but, oh, before you go, if I may just introduce you to someone?"

"Absolutely, any friend of yours, Countess…"

"Oh, charming as ever! Although, he is not a friend so much as my young nephew." The Countess extended her hand and a tall young man emerged from somewhere behind Grey's left shoulder.

"Fabian, let me introduce you to Lord John Grey. Lord John, this is Fabian Bailey. He is my brother's son and he was so looking forward to meeting you this evening."

To the boy's credit, he neither blanched nor blushed, simply reaching out to shake Grey's hand. "It is an honour to meet you, my lord."

The Countess tucked her hand around the crook of her nephew's elbow. "Did you know that Fabian remembers you from a Yuletide party we held here five years ago?"

"You have an impressive memory," Grey said equably, bowing his head in acknowledgment. He refrained from enquiring as to what was so noteworthy about his person five years previously because he, of all people, knew how a chance meeting could create quite the impression.

"Yes, it should serve him well in Oxford," said the Countess. "He is a very focused student, you know. We expect great things from him. You might go into politics, mightn't you, Fabian? Though, of course, we thought you were certain to go into politics, Lord John."

"Well, if I may be so bold to say it, Countess," said Grey, turning towards Fabian, "our paths often lead us in most unexpected directions." He smiled warmly. "That is not to say these directions are unwelcome, of course."

With a final bow to the Countess and a warm, no-more-than-friendly press of Fabian's hand, Grey made his way out into the snowy night, almost entirely oblivious to Tom's fluttering attentions as he considered, instead, the broad shoulders and wide smile of an unexpected admirer.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Enormous thanks to my three wonderful betas, Beth, S &amp; Michelle. Any mistakes remaining are entirely my own.  
> 2\. Even bigger thanks to Kenaz for a wonderful prompt which prompted me, in turn, to re-read Lord John's escapades (a very worthwhile use of time!).  
> 2\. John Grey, Tom Byrd and Harry Quarry are the property of Diana Gabaldon. All remaining characters are figments of my own imagination, with the exceptions of James Wolfe and Prime Minister Pitt, who were completely real.


End file.
